


Sober

by Anarfea



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: “I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t do sober.”It’s a lie and they both know it. Sober, Sherlock won’t speak to him except to snark about his job or his weight, much less climb in bed with him. It didn’t use to be this way, and he’s not sure when exactly things went wrong (well, the first time he gave in to to Sherlock is probably when it all went wrong), but sometime after Sherlock started getting high, he started getting high to get off with Mycroft.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beyonces_fiancee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyonces_fiancee/gifts).



> Written for this prompt: fic concept: young mycroft & teen sherlock whump with their fucked up enabling/codependency and yet as much as mycroft is horrified and frightened for his brother when he ODs he also treasures each experience because that's the only time sherlock lets mycroft get close to him. even though ofc mycroft NEVER talks about his feelings and goes about comforting him all wrong and makes sherlock feel ashamed and stupid and small yet w/ mycroft's $ safety net which perpetuates the addictive cycle im cry

Sherlock never knocks. Not even when he knows Mycroft is home. He breaks in, every time. At least his lock picking skills have gotten better and he doesn’t destroy them anymore. Mycroft supposes he should buy better ones, but right now the money from his modest clerk’s salary goes to the rent on his tiny flat and the wardrobe for the job he wants to have someday. Hopefully someday soon.

Sherlock clumps through the hallway on heavy boots Mycroft can hear through his closed bedroom door. The light streams under his doorway and then opens. Sherlock’s lanky silhouette blocks the door. He swallows.

His brother unbuckles the ridiculous platforms and drops a leather jacket (too big for him, borrowed and then stolen) on top of them in the middle of the floor, then climbs into Mycroft’s bed. He reeks of sweat and cigarettes and his skin is pebbled and clammy. The thin t-shirt he’s wearing sticks to it. He covers Mycroft’s mouth with his. His lips are cold.

Mycroft turns his head. His pulse is elevated and his limbs are warm and his cock twitches beneath his pajamas. “Don’t.”

“Oh, come on, My.” Sherlock pulls the drawstring open (Mycroft sucks in his belly) and slides his fingers inside. “It’s not like you’d be corrupting my innocence….”

Mycroft grabs his wrist, squeezing until he feels the bones shift. “Not when you’re high.”

“I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t do sober.”

It’s a lie and they both know it. Sober, Sherlock won’t speak to him except to snark about his job or his weight, much less climb in bed with him. It didn’t use to be this way, and he’s not sure when exactly things went wrong (well, the first time he gave in to to Sherlock is probably when it all went wrong), but sometime after Sherlock started getting high, he started getting high to get off with Mycroft.

Sherlock jerks his wrist away, rubbing it in an exaggerated manner. The moonlight illuminates his pouting face. “You’re such a prude, Mycroft.” He rocks his body into Mycroft’s thigh, his own erection pressing against the seam of his ratty denims. “You clearly want me.”

“I don’t.” There’s more venom behind it than he intended. What he wants to say is: _it’s terrifying, seeing you like this. It hurts too much to touch you when all I can think of is that maybe it’s the last time._

What he says is: “you’re sloppy, Sherlock. It’s not attractive.”

Sherlock’s look of hurt surprise is quickly replaced by feigned scorn. He rolls away from Mycroft in a strop.

Mycroft curls his body around his brother’s, running his arm up his sides.

Sherlock huffs.

He does want Sherlock sober. Desperately. He also knows that if Sherlock stays sober, he will never climb into Mycroft’s bed again. Which is as it should be. If Sherlock has to get high to do it, it’s clearly not something he really wants. What he wants is Mycroft's wallet, which is empty the morning after. Every time.

He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock turns in his arms. They’re nose to nose, now. His breath is sour. “Make it up to me?”

Mycroft kisses him.


End file.
